
Book -Xl: 



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SOLITARY MUSINGS 



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SOLITARY MUSINGS. 



[N SIGHT OF MOUNT VEUNON. 



Down the Potomac's broad and ample wave, 
We float along in silence, for beliold! 
The Home of one whose name hath filled the world: 
Of Washington ! Who hath not heard of him ? 
Embosom'd in the pomp of leafy woods 
It stands ; a quiet home, yet draws all eyes 
To gaze upon it, and with reverence. 
Even the rude boatman ceases with his oar 
To trouble the calm waters, and so break 
That hallowed stillness ; and the restless winds 
Are hush'd to sleep ; while the declining sun 
Glides gently from our sight, its latest beams 
Darting in splendour from behind the grove 
Which overlooks his grave. -js^i^ 

A simple mound of nature's purest green 

Contains his sacred dust; yet pilgrim feet 

" From the four corners of the earth still come'' 
To pay their homage there. There late ^He stood, 

1 Written August, 18i5, 

2 Lafayette. 



The Strans^er Guest, whom with such loud acclaim 
The nation welcom'd — there he stood and wept. 
Oh ! may no hand profane disturb the dust 
Of him who sleeps below; still miy he rest 
Beneath his own hereditary trees ! 
And there be shed the tributary tear, 
And there the prayer he breath'd, and the warm wish 
Be cherish'd, that the world had more like him. 

But see those golden hues begin to fade, 
And the wave shines less brightly ; let us take 
The pencil, and preserve the lovely scene; 
Ere the tints die in darkness Vain the thought, 
So swift grey evenin:^ follows the sun's flight! 

Yet one who gazes now on this fair scene ; 
A stranger — and whose home is far away, 
Shall keep remembrance of it in her breast 
With all its natural beauties ; and the thoughts, 
Which crowd themselves into her busy mind, 
Shall oft return, as wandering on the banks 
Of her own native river, she may stray 
" Indulging all to thought." 



ON THE GRAVES OF TWO BROTHERS, Irtsk Emigrants. 



Wanderers from Erin's Isle, beneath whose skies 
They first drew breath, and o'er whose dewy meads 
Their infant steps first p>ess'd the verdant turf, 
Hither the^ came, in manhoods spring, to seek, 
For what is dear to man — denied at home, 
Fair competence, reward of Industry ; 
And equal rie^hts, at no proud despot's will 
Given, or withheld ; and free to seek their God 
As their forefathers sought him. And, perhaps, 
They sought to find a name which should not die 
WJien they were dead. Such, some of Erin's sons 
Have foimd in this young world of Liberty. 
And on her history's broad and ample page 
They stand conspicuous. Many a page 
Hath she to fill, and many a leaf to turn, 
Yet blank, ere her high destiny be fill'd! 
A beacon, and example to the world 
She stands ! The dread of Kins[s ; the hope of Men ! 
If those, now laid in earth, had such a hope. 
Behold its end, they came, and found the Grave ! 

Perchance in their own land, they left a sire 
Who urged them forth, to make themselves a home 



In this free clime. Seeking the benefit 
Of generations to be born — his seed. 
Himself too old to leave his parent land. 
He, haply, seated by his custom 'd hearth, 
Is thinking of his absent sons, and sighs, 
And almost wishes they had not gone forth, 
So much he feels their loss — Yet comforts him 
With the fond hope that all is well with them ; 
And dwelling on the years to come, his thoughts 
Are busy, picturing them successful still 
In all their projects. And, in fancy, sees 
Them full of life and health, as last he saw, 
When from his door they turn'd them silently, 
After their last adieus, to seek the port 
Where lay the stately ship, in readiness 
To bear them onward to the chosen land. 
Could he look here, upon these humble graves, 
And know what's laid within, would he not tear 
His aged locks, and cry " my sons ! my sons ! 
Would I had died for ye ! " 

But thou, who melancholy by their graves 
Dost sit, indulging pensive thoughts ; canst thou, 
Who numberest twice their years, canst thou believe 
Death is an evil ? Death ! which comes to all 
Or soon or late. 

Alas! Alas! what is the happiest life 
When man's awake ? But we have happy dreams 



In youth, ere we have tried the world, or felt 
Our happiness blown from us by a breath ; 
Or found that life is all a disappointment. — 
This bitter knowledge, those in the cold graves 
Beside thee, never, never now, can taste. 
And quietness is theirs, and peace, and rest. 
Have they not happiness ? — Ah ! who has more ? 



ON THE FUNERAL OP AN INFANT, January, 1826. 






One tender blossom pure and pale, low in the earth 

we laid, 
And, bending o'er its span-long grave, with tearful 

ejes we said, 
" RCvSt little one, in quiet rest, beneath this foreign 

soil, 
The first of all thy race who here have ceased from 

mortal coil." 

" Far from the land where sleep thy sires, each in his 

narrow cell, 
And where thy kindred race at home continue still to 

dwell. 
In loneliness we leave thee here — unwilliiig so to 

leave. 
And as we bend our steps from thee, we turn again 

to grieve." 



" Grieve for thy destiny fulfill'd within so short a 

space, 
And that thy transient sojourn here should leave so 

slight a trace. 
That thou wilt have no part with us, in all that shall 

be done, 
Around our hearths, or on the plain, beneath the 

pleasant sun." 

" For this we weep" — but sadder thoughts had those 

who stood around 
That little grave with heavy hearts, and eyes that 

sought the ground ; 
They thought upon the parent stem from which that 

flower was rent. 
And sure they deem'd her mortal share of life was 

nearly spent. 

And stretch'd upon a couch of pain that tender mo- 
ther lay — 

Else had she stood beside the grave of her young 
babe that day. 

And how to her, when they return, shall they of com- 
fort tell. 

And hope, when hope no longer in their own sad 
hearts can dwell. 



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Thy feRr that soon again their feet that dreary path 
will tread, 

And soon another open grave yawn ready for its 
dead — 

They fear that soon the tree will lie, where lies its 
fallen bud, 

Mother and infant, side by side, in one sad neigh- 
bourhood ! 



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" And there she dwells, 
In her own native land she dwells, begirt 
With growing infancy ; Daughters and Sons 
Of Beauty " 



O Susan, conldst thou hear thy Sister's voice I 
But she is distant from thee; far away 
O'er the blue ocean's waves ; and speech is vain, 
Lost in the idle air. But could'st thou hear, 
There scarce should visit thee an evening's breeze 
But it should whisper thee. And it should tell 
How one, a wanderer in the lonely woods, 
Was thinkinjy of thee, and almost believed 
She was conversing with thee ; as she wont 
In her spring time of Life, when side by side 
She rambled forth with thee, her plea>ures still 
The same as thine, her wishes all the same. 
To tread the flowery turf, to scent the breeze 
Laden with perfume from the hawthorn hedge; 
Or to soiiie distant field excursion make 
To load our baskets with the Cowslip's bloom, 
Then almost weep the ravage we had made. 
Or on some holiday expected long. 
When all our cares dismiss'd, our tasks fuliiU'd, 
With buoyant steps and joyous looks we'd go 
And gladly leave the town with all its toys 



L.ofC. 



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And all its noise and novelties behind. 

Then when we leach'd some favourite spot would stay 

Our steps, and an the verdant bank reclin'd, 

Listen the distant hums, which from the Town 

Would come, at intervals, upon the breeze, 

Makino; our solitude still sweeter. And 

The pealing bells, which still were heard o'er all, 

Would come so mellow'd to us, that the lark. 

When he uprose above our heads, and sung 

His wonted lay, would so o'erpower their chime, 

That they were heard no more, until his close. 

Sure thou rememberest those our childhood's days ! 
And seldom dost thou walk the well known paths, 
So often trod by us, but thou dost think 
Of thy young life's companion, far away ! 
I know thou dost, and it is sweet to know, 
There still is one, far distant though she be, 
Whose thoughts are of me in the stilly night, 
And in the rural walk : then best indulg'd. 
Nor yet to j^outh was our companionship 
Confin'd alone, we went together still 
Long after we had left our Parents' roof, 
And time had seen us wives 

We drank together long 
At the same spring, and scarcely did we deem. 
It possible that time should e'er divide 
Two bound together by so many ties. 



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Sisters we were, our age almost tlie samcy 
One mother bore us, and one father rear'd, 
In the same house we dwelt, in the same bed 
We slept; to£i:ether still — And when our hearts, 
As nature will'd, had chosen other guides. 
We still dwelt near each other, and could meet 
For counsel : If perchance a cloud should rise 
In our calm summer sky, our wonted love 
Would draw us still together. Why we met 
Not thought upon ; our only wish, to meet. 

But now between us roll the Atlantic's waves, 
And long, long years have pass'd since we have met ; 
And time has brought no balsam to the wound, 
Which, since we sunder'd, still remains with me. 
The dearest hours I count, are those which pass 
Distant from all, save memory of thee. 
And in the woods I wander, till the day 
Looks drowsily upon me ; with a sigh 

I bid thee then farewell, and homeward turn ^ 

^Vith soften'd heart, and feelings sooth'd and calm'd. ''^4MP 



14 



TO My FATHER, ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY, 2d February, 
1824. 



My Friend ! my Father ! as this day returns, 
My sadden'd mind is fill'J whh thoughts of thee ; 
Of thee, and home, and of thy jjathering years. 
Long since have pass'd thy "threescore years and ten" 
And still thou art, and long mayst thou remain, 
Thy Children's Cynosure — though one remote, 
Must think of thee with tears — in secret shed. 
For never more may she thy accents hear; 
And never more thy Sabbath walks attend ; 
Receiving from thy lips the precept pure. 
As love of man and nature prompted thee. 

Far, far remov'd she weeps, and still must weep 
As busy memory wakes within her breast : 
For she may never aid thy feeble steps. 
Now unsupported by a partner's care. 
O ! she would cross the seas, and cross the lands 
Which lie between her and her native home, 
(Those pleasant fields where first she drew her breath) 
But ties as strong, which may not be unloos'd, 
Her heart acknowledges, have bound her here. 



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And she has made a home — another home, — 
With strangers all about — strange scenes around. 
Not without beauty are those scenes so new ; 
But in her heart they hold a lowly place, 
And one small flower sent from her native plains, 
Is dearer to her than the stately tree 
Covered with blossoms of this foreign soil. 
And dearer to her love and more esteem'd. 
One sinjiie line trac'd by a Father's hand — 
Than all the eloquence now pouring forth. 
By the great free-born Statesmen of this land. 

Can 1 forget thee ? — never ! — 1 may lose, 
Nay — I have lost thee When my trembling feet 
Last bore me from thy sight; I lost thee then. 
And she who rests in peace fto the still grave. 
Called somewhat ere her timej she too I lost; 
The tender Mother, and the constant friend. 
I lost her then — for since — what have I known 
Of her ? save — " she is gone the way whence she 
Shall not return" 

But thou art still on earth — 
I trust thou art — yet, ah ! we cannot meet. 
And trace what time has done for each of us, 
Since last we met. And many a year hath pass'd 
Since we did meet, and deeper snows I know 
Are scatter'd o'er thy head ; and upon mine 
Already may be trac'd a hair or two 
Chang'd to a silvery white. — But let this pass — 



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The mortal part is chang'd, and still must change 
We know, — and be it so ; but the regard, 
And the deep-rooted love I bear to thee, 
Can never change, let time do what it may. 
And thine to me, thy last born Child, I know 
Is still as warm, as in my sunny days 
Of Childhood, when I frolick'd by thy side, 
Or slept in peace beneath thy shelt'ring roof. 

Did not thy age forbid it, I might hope 
Once more to meet thee " in the flesh," and help 
To cheer thee on thy way. And join'd with those 
Whom " chance and change" have left about thee still, 
My brethren, help to smooth what's left of life, 
And guide thy footsteps gently to the grave. 

Sad though my thoughts may be, yet think thou not 
But there is pleasure in them, dearer far. 
Than what the world deems gaiety. 

Yet am I sometimes gay, and oftenest when 
I lead my brother's little flock abroad, 
In search of flowers or berries, through the woods. 
Thy Children's Children, growing fresh and fair, 
Young scions parted from their native stock ; 
Some thou hast never seen and one fair boy, 
Who bears thy name, I fondly think thy look, 
He is most dear to me. — Though England's sun 
Ne'er shone upon his cheeks, they shame the rose. 
— And noiv I would be gay, but on this day. 



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Thy natal day, sad thoughts will still arise ; 
I cannot chase them from me. As I think 
How long the time is since I heard of thee 
And of thy welfare, Fancy will be busy, 
Picturing what may have chanc'd, in that dear spot, 
Where thou inhabitest. Since I have heard 
Those words repeated, "all is viell at home," 
" Three crabbed months have sour'd themselves to 
death." 

The winds and waves, I know, have adverse been 
But the good ship in safety is arrived. 
Which should have brought me tidings — and brought 
none. 

I once had hope, thou would'st have come and 
dwelt 
Here with me. And have left thy household Gods, 
And thy forefathers' graves, and made a home 
With me and mine. The hope was selfish, sure, 
For thou hast others very dear to thee, 
Around thy hearth, who would have mourn'd thy loss 
As I do now. But thou hadst long desired 
To see this land ; where man may stand erect 
Before his fellows, and not be abash'dj 
Although the crime of Poverty, be his. 
And this thou would'st have seen ; and equal laws 
Framed by all, for benefit of all 
All did I say — Oh no ! not all, not they 



18 



The sons of 4fiic, would I could forget 
Their injur'd race ; and leave the picture free 
From this foul stain — It maj not, must not be. 
Ah, here thou would'st have seen, what would have 

made 
Thy heart to sink within thee — man led forth 
For sale, barter'd for gold. — Wife, Children torn 
From him for ever. And they too in turn, 
As chance or whim directs, away are borne. 
To toil for other masters, where their steps 
Never before have trod. — But let us quit 
This painful, fruitless theme. 

Pd rather speak to thee of the rich stores 
We should have found to please us, as we trod 
The silent woods, or " great Potomac's" shores ; 
Or trac'd some wand'ring rivulet to its source; 
Or side by side have sat in yonder Mome 
List'ning to Clay's or Randolph's silvery tones. 

Of thee I learned to love the lonely scenes 
Where Nature dwells — far from the din of men. 
And in my wanderings I have found the spots 
Where the first spring-flovv'ers blossom ; flowers 

unknown 
In thy familiar fields, and of strange forms, 
Such as arrest the eye of traveller, from 
The ' olden land." And in the secret nooks, 

1 The Capitol, at Washington. 



19 



We should have mark'd the lonely squirrel play. 
And many a shrub, and many a spreading tree 
Would stay our steps ; and darting through the shade, 
Birds of gay plumage, like a flash of light, 
Would startle us. All these I would have shown thee. 
While Summer lasted. And when Winter's rage 
Should stay our steps from wand'ring, we would sit 
And speak of days long past ; or turn the page ; 
Or in the daily Journals search for news, 
" Latest from Europe" meeting first our eyes. 



Those hopes I now abandon, and must leave 
Communing with thee. Wishing thee, this day. 
Health ! — Peace, I know thou hast- — " that peace of 

heart 
Passing all understanding" — Fare thee well ! 



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